Rejected Luna, Claimed by the King

Adella POV I woke up drowning. Not in water, but in the scent of him. Crushed cedar, ozone, and the heavy, electric charge of a violent storm. It was everywhere—seeping into my pores, clinging to the sheets that tangled around my legs. I bolted upright, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This wasn't my narrow cot in the servants' quarters of the Hyde estate. This was a bed large enough to sleep a small army, dressed in charcoal sheets that felt like spun silk. The room was vast, a cavern of glass and dark wood overlooking the city skyline, cold and aggressively masculine. I looked down. I was wearing a black t-shirt that hung to my knees. It smelled like him. Dallas. Panic, sharp and acidic, clawed at my throat. The memories of last night crashed into me like a tidal wave—the rejection, the library, the desperate plea in the car, the contract. I own you. I scrambled out of bed, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. On the sleek ebony nightstand, a stack of items awaited me. A set of clothes—my exact size, brand new. A matte black credit card with no limit. And a single sheet of heavy cream stationery with handwriting that was jagged and sharp. Business in the North. Do not leave the city. Use the card. - D And next to the note, a velvet box. My hands trembled as I opened it. Inside sat a platinum band, simple but thick, devoid of diamonds but radiating a terrifying weight. I slid it onto my left ring finger. It fit perfectly. It felt heavier than a shackle. My phone buzzed on the nightstand, startling me. I picked it up, the screen illuminating the dim room. A text from an unknown number. "Legal documents filed. You are now the primary beneficiary of the Marshall Estate and under the protection of the Blackwood Pack. Do not make us regret this." It was from his Beta. I sank onto the edge of the bed, the air in the penthouse suddenly feeling too thin. I had traded a life of servitude for a gilded cage. I was safe from the world, yes, but I was locked in with a monster. The phone buzzed again. And again. A continuous, angry vibration. I looked at the screen. Braydon Hyde (52 missed calls). My stomach twisted. For years, seeing his name would have made me smile. Now, it just made me want to vomit. The phone rang again, his face flashing on the screen—a photo I had taken of us last summer, laughing in the sun. "Leave me alone," I whispered to the empty room. The ringing didn't stop. It was a demand. A summons. As if I were still his little wolfless pet, expected to come running the moment he whistled. Rage, hot and unfamiliar, surged through me. He had humiliated me in front of the entire Pack. He had chosen Katherine. He had erased me. And now he dared to call? With aggressive force, I swiped the decline button and immediately blocked the number. The silence that followed was deafening, but for the first time in twenty-four hours, I felt a tiny spark of control. By the time I reached the university library, my nerves were frayed. I had dressed in the clothes Dallas left—dark jeans and a cashmere sweater that cost more than my life's earnings—hoping to blend in. "Adella!" I froze near the reference section. A blur of red hair and boundless energy intercepted me. Azalea Sterling. She was stunning, with eyes the color of honey and a smile that could disarm a bomb. As the adopted daughter of the Alpha King, she was royalty here. And she was the only she-wolf who had ever treated me like a human being. "Azalea," I managed, clutching my bag tighter. "I... I have to study." "Screw studying," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She cornered me against a bookshelf, her expression shifting from friendly to intense. "Why did my father just transfer an amount of money into your account that could buy a small island?" My blood ran cold. Of course. She would know. "I..." My mind raced. I couldn't tell her I was her new stepmother. The thought alone was insane. "I'm doing some translation work for him. Ancient texts. From the library archives." Azalea narrowed her eyes, sniffing the air around me. I prayed the scent of her father on me had faded, or that she would mistake it for the 'work' I was doing. "Translation work," she repeated, skeptical. "Dad doesn't read. He growls and signs things." "It's very specialized," I lied, my voice shaking. She stared at me for a long moment, then shrugged, the tension evaporating as quickly as it had come. "Whatever. If he's paying, you're spending. Come on." She grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the library, across the quad, and toward the student parking lot. "Azalea, where are we going?" "To see your other 'payment'," she chirped. We stopped in the center of the lot. Surrounded by rusted Hondas and dented Toyotas sat a beast. A brand new Aston Martin, painted a lethal gunmetal grey. It gleamed under the afternoon sun like a weapon. Heads were turning. Students were whispering. "He had it dropped off an hour ago," Azalea said, dangling a set of keys in front of my face. "He said your Ford Fiesta was an 'insult to road safety'." I stared at the car in horror. It wasn't a gift. It was a mark. A giant, flashing neon sign telling the world that Adella Everett was property of the Alpha King. "I can't drive this," I whispered. "You can, and you will," Azalea laughed, pressing the keys into my palm. She opened the driver's side door for me, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Get in, Mrs. Marshall." The air left my lungs. I looked at her, terrified she knew, but she was just grinning, making a joke about her father's over-the-top generosity. She had no idea that the title wasn't a punchline. It was my reality. I slid into the leather seat, the heavy platinum ring on my finger clinking against the steering wheel, and felt the cage door slam shut.